Ferro sucked her teeth. A waste of her time, but if it had to be done, it was best done quickly. “What shall I ask him?”

“Well… how far away the Gurkish army is, how many are in it, what route they are taking, you know—”

“Huh.” Ferro squatted down in front of the prisoner and looked him squarely in the eyes. He stared back, helpless and frightened, no doubt wondering what she was doing with these pinks. She wondered herself.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

She drew her knife and held it up. “You will answer my questions, or I will kill you with this knife. That is who I am. Where is the Gurkish army?”

He licked his lips. “Perhaps… two days march away, to the south.”

“How many?”

“More than I could count. Many thousands. People of the deserts, and the plains, and the—”

“What route are they taking?”

“I do not know. We were only told to ride to this village, and see whether it was empty.” He swallowed, the lump on the front of his sweaty throat bobbing up and down. “Perhaps my Captain knows more—”

“Ssss,” hissed Ferro. His Captain would be telling nobody anything now she had carved up his head. “A lot of them,” she snapped at Vallimir, in common, “and many more to come, two days’ march behind. He does not know their route. What now?”

Vallimir rubbed at the light stubble on his jaw. “I suppose… we should take him back to the Agriont. Deliver him to the Inquisition.”

“He knows nothing. He will only slow us down. We should kill him.”

“He surrendered! To kill him would be no better than murder, war or no war.” Vallimir beckoned to one of the soldiers. “I won’t have that on my conscience.”

“I will.” Ferro’s knife slid smoothly into the scout’s heart, and out. His mouth and his eyes opened up very wide. Blood bubbled through the split cloth on his chest, spread out quickly in a dark ring. He gawped at it, making a long sucking sound.

“Glugh…” His head dropped back, his body sagged. She turned to see the soldiers staring at her, pale faces puffed up with shock. A busy day for them, maybe. A lot to learn, but they would soon get used to it.

That, or the Gurkish would kill them.

“They want to burn your farms, and your towns, and your cities. They want to make slaves of your children. They want everyone in the world to pray to God in the same way they do, with the same words they use, and for your land to be a province of their Empire. I know this.” Ferro wiped the blade of her knife on the sleeve of the dead man’s tunic. “The only difference between war and murder is the number of the dead.”

Vallimir stared down at the corpse of his prisoner for a moment, his lips thoughtfully pursed. Ferro wondered if he had more backbone than she had given him credit for. Finally, he turned towards her. “What do you suggest?”

“We could wait for more here. Perhaps even get some real Gurkish this time. But that might mean too many for we few.”

“So?”

“East, or north, and set another trap like this one.”

“And defeat the Emperor’s army a dozen men at a time? Small steps.”

Ferro shrugged. “Small steps in the right direction. Unless you’ve seen enough, and want to go back to your walls.”

Vallimir gave her a long frown, then he turned to one of his men, a heavy-built veteran with a scar on his cheek. “There is a village just east of here, is there not, Sergeant Forest?”

“Yes, sir. Marlhof is no more than ten miles distant.”

“Will that suit you?” asked Vallimir, raising one eyebrow at Ferro.

“Dead Gurkish suit me. That is all.”

Leaves on the Water

“Carleon,” said Logen. “Aye,” said Dogman. It squatted there, in the fork of the river, under the brooding clouds. Hard shapes of tall walls and towers on the sheer bluff above the fast-flowing water, up where Skarling’s hall used to stand. Slate roofs and stone buildings squashed in tight on the long downward slope, clustered in round the foot of the hill and with another wall outside, everything leant a cold, sharp shine from the rain just finished falling. Dogman couldn’t say he was glad to see the place again. Every visit yet had turned out badly.

“It’s changed some, since the battle, all them years ago.” Logen was looking down at his spread-out hand, waggling the stump of his missing finger.

“There weren’t no walls like that round it then.”

“No. But there weren’t no Union army round it neither.”

Dogman couldn’t deny it was a comforting fact. The Union pickets worked their way through the empty fields about the city, a wobbly line of earthworks, and stakes, and fences, with men moving behind ’em, dull sunlight catching metal now and then. Thousands of men, well-armed and vengeful, keeping Bethod penned up.

“You sure he’s in there?”

“Don’t see where else he’s got to go. He lost most of his best boys up in the mountains. No friends left, I reckon.”

“We’ve all got less than we used to,” Dogman muttered. “I guess we just sit here. We got time, after all. Lots of it. We sit here and watch the grass grow, and we wait for Bethod to give up.”

“Aye.” But Logen didn’t look like he believed it.

“Aye,” said Dogman. But just giving up didn’t sound much like the Bethod he knew.

He turned his head at the sound of hooves fast on the road, saw one of those messengers with a helmet like an angry chicken race from the trees and towards West’s tent, horse well-lathered from hard riding. He reined up in a fumbling hurry, near fell out of his saddle in his rush to get down, wobbled past a few staring officers and in through the flap. Dogman felt that familiar weight of worry in his gut. “That’s got the taste o’ bad news.”

“What other kind is there?”

There was some flutter down there now, soldiers shouting, throwing their arms around. “Best go and see what’s happened,” muttered Dogman, though he’d much rather have walked the other way. Crummock was stood near the tent, frowning at the commotion.

“Something’s up,” said the hillman. “But I don’t understand a thing these Southerners say or do. I swear, they’re all mad.”

Mad chatter came surging out of that tent alright, when Dogman pushed back the flap. There were Union officers all around the place and in a bastard of a muddle. West was in the midst of it, face pale as fresh milk, his fists clenched tight around nothing.

“Furious!” Dogman grabbed him by the arm. “What the hell’s happening?”

“The Gurkish have invaded Midderland.” West pulled his arm free and took to shouting.

“The who have done what now?” muttered Crummock.

“The Gurkish.” Logen was frowning deep. “Brown folk, from way down south. Hard folk, by all accounts.”

Pike had come up now, his burned face grim. “They landed an army by sea. They might have reached Adua already.”

“Hold on, now.” Dogman didn’t know a thing about Gurkish, or Adua, or Midderland, but his bad feeling was getting worse every moment. “What’re you telling us, exactly?”

“We’ve been ordered home. Now.”

Dogman stared. He should’ve known all along it couldn’t be this simple. He grabbed West by the arm again, stabbing down towards Carleon with his dirty finger. “We’ve nothing like the men we need to carry on a siege o’ this place without you!”

“I know,” said West, “and I’m sorry. But there’s nothing I can do. Get over to General Poulder!” he snapped at a young lad with a squint. “Tell him to get his division ready to march for the coast at once!”

Dogman blinked, feeling sick to his stomach. “So we fought seven days in the High Places for nothing? Tul died, and the dead know how many more, for nothing?” It always took him by surprise, how fast something could fall apart once you were leaning on it. “That’s it, then. Back to woods, and cold, and running, and killing. No end to it.”

“Might be another way,” said Crummock.

“What way?”